Chapter Twenty-Five — You Still Want Me #2
The question should have been easy. It wasn’t.
Ronan looked at him. At the bruise. The split lip.
The face that had lied to him. The mouth that had confessed.
The teeth that had marked him before any of this began.
Then Ronan pulled down the collar of his shirt enough to expose the fading mark near his shoulder.
Elliot stared at it. Understanding came immediately. His eyes darkened.
“No.”
Ronan blinked.
“What?”
“You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“Yes.”
“You found out I’m a murderer tonight.”
“Technically yesterday.”
“Ronan.”
“What?”
Elliot stared at the exposed skin.
“I’m not doing that unless you actually want it.”
Ronan almost laughed. Of all fucking times for Elliot to develop restraint.
“You're asking permission to bite me.”
“Yes.”
“You.”
“Yes.”
“The man who once bit me because Dylan liked an Instagram post.”
“He used a heart.”
“It was a fucking heart.”
“It was suggestive.”
Ronan laughed. Elliot almost did. Then Ronan’s expression sobered.
“I want it.”
Elliot searched his face.
“Why?”
Ronan hated the answer. Because Nathan had touched him.
Because Saint thought he understood them.
Because Vance had Elliot’s secrets by the throat and Ronan had spent hours lying to keep them there.
Because the entire world suddenly seemed to have access to something Ronan had once believed belonged only to him. He reached for Elliot again.
“Because I need one thing tonight to still be ours.”
Elliot stopped breathing. There. That was the answer.
Not punishment. Not absolution. Not forgiveness.
Theirs. Elliot touched Ronan’s waist. Slowly.
Waiting. Ronan nodded. The restraint disappeared.
Elliot kissed him again. Harder. Ronan backed into the island, Elliot following, their bodies colliding hard enough to make something on the counter rattle.
Elliot’s mouth moved from his lips to his jaw and then lower, but he stopped at Ronan’s throat.
Waiting again. Ronan threaded his fingers through Elliot’s damp hair.
“Do it.”
Elliot’s breath warmed his skin.
“Say it.”
Ronan knew exactly what he wanted. The words that had once been a joke. The words someone else had stolen from them. Maybe that was why Ronan wanted them back. He tightened his grip in Elliot’s
hair. “Good boys don’t bite.” Elliot’s teeth closed against his skin.
Ronan gasped. And for the first time since learning exactly what Elliot Mercer was, Ronan didn’t ask the monster to disappear.
He pulled him closer. Elliot’s mouth stayed at the junction of neck and shoulder, teeth sinking deeper until the sharp edge of pain bloomed into heat.
Ronan’s cock throbbed hard against the press of Elliot’s thigh.
He dragged Elliot fully on top of him, one hand still fisted in dark hair, the other sliding down the length of his spine to grip the firm curve of his ass and pull their hips flush.
The friction was immediate—denim and cotton and the hard lines of two cocks grinding together.
Elliot rolled his hips once, slow and deliberate, and Ronan’s breath broke on a low sound.
Clothes became an obstacle. Ronan shoved Elliot’s shirt up and off, then his own.
Bare chests met, skin already flushed and warm.
Elliot’s mouth moved lower, open and wet, biting a path across Ronan’s collarbone, the swell of his pectoral, the tight ridge of muscle over his ribs.
Each mark left a dark, blooming bruise. Ronan’s hands mapped Elliot in return—palms sliding over the lean planes of his back, the sharp cut of his hipbones, the tense flex of his ass as he ground down again. Ronan flipped them.
Elliot landed on his back with a soft huff of surprise that turned into a groan when Ronan settled between his spread thighs and rolled his hips in a long, grinding thrust. Their cocks dragged together through the remaining fabric.
Ronan’s mouth found Elliot’s, kissing him deep and messy, tasting the copper from the earlier bite on his own lip.
Elliot’s legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him closer.
They stripped the rest with impatient hands.
Jeans shoved down, underwear kicked away.
Naked, Ronan settled between Elliot’s thighs again, their cocks sliding together—hot, slick with precome, the drag of skin on skin making both of them shudder.
Ronan wrapped a hand around both shafts and stroked once, slow, watching Elliot’s face.
Elliot’s eyes were half-lidded, lips parted, the careful mask nowhere in sight.
This was the version only Ronan got to see— hungry, unguarded, teeth still faintly red from the bite.
Ronan reached for the lube. Slicked his fingers.
Pressed two against Elliot’s entrance and pushed inside with deliberate care.
Elliot’s body opened for him, tight heat clenching around the intrusion.
Ronan curled his fingers, found the spot that made Elliot’s cock jump against his stomach and a raw, punched-out sound leave his throat.
“Fuck—Ronan—”
“I’ve got you.”
Three fingers by the time Elliot was rocking down onto them, chasing the stretch.
Ronan withdrew, slicked his own cock—thick, flushed dark, the head already shiny—and lined himself up.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt and they were breathing the same air.
Elliot’s hands mapped Ronan’s back, nails digging in hard enough to leave half-moons.
“Move.” Ronan did. Deep, controlled thrusts that dragged over every sensitive place inside him.
The wet sound of their bodies meeting filled the quiet room.
Elliot’s legs tightened around his waist, heels urging him harder.
Ronan gave it—hips snapping forward, the angle shifting until every stroke punched a broken sound from Elliot’s throat.
Elliot’s mouth found Ronan’s shoulder again. He bit down, hard, teeth sinking into muscle the way he always did when he needed to claim something. Ronan growled low and answered with a sharper thrust, burying himself deeper.
“That’s it,” Ronan breathed against Elliot’s ear. “Mark me. My good boy.”
Elliot’s cock throbbed between them, leaking steadily onto his own stomach.
Ronan wrapped a fist around it and stroked in time with his thrusts—tight, twisting, thumb circling the slick head.
The dual sensation pulled Elliot apart. His body clenched hard around Ronan’s cock as he came, thick pulses striping his chest and Ronan’s hand, the force of it dragging Ronan over the edge with him.
Ronan buried himself deep and spilled inside him, heat flooding in long, pulsing waves.
They stayed locked together while the aftershocks faded, foreheads pressed, breath shared and uneven.
Elliot’s fingers traced the fresh bite mark on Ronan’s shoulder—dark, private, theirs.
Ronan
kissed
the
corner
of
his
mouth,
soft. “Still
here.”
Elliot’s
smile
was
small,
real. “Good.”
Afterward,
the
house
was
quiet
again. Ronan
lay
on
his
back
staring
at
the
ceiling. Elliot was beside him. Close. Not touching. That was almost funny considering what had just happened. Ronan turned his head. Elliot was awake. Of course.
“You can stop pretending you’re asleep.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You had your eyes closed.”
“I was thinking.”
“Dangerous.”